Ode to my Father

Rest in peace, father 🕊️🙏🏼 - 31.07.2023

The loss of a loved one is always a deeply emotional experience, but when that person is a father with whom you never had a relationship, the grief can be uniquely complex. As I mourn the passing of my father, who I last saw 13 years ago, I find myself grappling with a sense of emptiness and longing for a connection that never truly existed. This letter serves as a cathartic exploration of my emotions, reflecting on the absence of a fatherly bond and the impact it has had on my life and the lives of my siblings.

Growing up without a father figure has left an indelible mark on my life. While some may argue that it is better to have no father than a toxic one, the absence of a paternal presence has left me yearning for guidance, support, and a sense of belonging. As a child, I often wondered why my father was not there for me, questioning my own worthiness of his love and attention. This void has shaped my understanding of relationships, self-worth, and the importance of emotional connections.

The last time I saw my father was 13 years ago, and the memory remains vivid in my mind. I had hoped for a moment of reconciliation, a chance to bridge the gap that had grown between us. However, his indifference and lack of happiness upon seeing me shattered any remaining hope. The pain of that encounter lingers, leaving me with a profound sense of rejection and a lingering question of what could have been.

Tragically, my father's passing not only leaves me mourning an empty loss but also highlights the fractured relationships between my siblings and me. We are united in our shared experience of growing up without a father's presence, yet we have been unable to forge meaningful connections with one another. The absence of a paternal figure has left us isolated, struggling to navigate life's challenges without the support and guidance that a father should provide. As we gather to bid our father farewell, we are confronted with the harsh reality of our disconnectedness, mourning not only his loss but also the lost opportunities for sibling bonds.

As the day of the funeral nears, and we gather to bid our last farewell to our father, I find myself grappling with a mix of emotions. The pain of an unfulfilled relationship weighs heavy on my heart, but amidst the sorrow, I also find room for forgiveness and acceptance.

Dear Father, though our paths seldom crossed and the distance between us seemed insurmountable, I want you to know that your passing has left an indelible mark on our lives. While we may not have shared the cherished moments a father and children should have, your presence – or lack thereof – has shaped us in profound ways.

As we stand here, your two sons and your daughter, we acknowledge the complexities of our emotions. We carry with us the unspoken words and unshared memories, yet we also carry the hope for healing and reconciliation.

May you rest in peace, Father. May the burdens that weighed heavily on your heart find release in the embrace of eternity. May you find solace in knowing that we, your children, are embarking on a journey of forgiveness and growth, seeking to mend the broken bonds and nurture the seeds of love that you may have planted, albeit unknowingly.

In this final farewell, we release the pain of an absent relationship, and instead, choose to remember the lessons learned from your life. We acknowledge that you were human, with your own struggles and imperfections. Your legacy serves as a reminder of the importance of nurturing the connections that truly matter, of cherishing the moments with loved ones, and of building bridges where there were once walls.

As we lay you to rest, we also lay to rest the grievances and regrets that have bound us for far too long. Our shared grief now unites us, and in this shared pain, we find the strength to support one another, to heal the wounds of the past, and to embrace the promise of a future built on understanding and compassion.

Father, though I never truly knew you, your presence in my life – and in your passing – has taught me valuable lessons about the human experience. We honor your memory not with anger or resentment but with the commitment to be better individuals, better siblings, and better parents.

May you find peace in the realm beyond, and may your spirit be free from the burdens that once weighed you down. Rest assured that your memory will live on in our hearts, and through the transformation sparked by your passing, we shall carry forward a legacy of love, forgiveness, and empathy.

Farewell, dear Father, and rest in peace. As we bid you goodbye, we embrace the hope that your departure will pave the way for a new chapter in our lives, where the love we longed for shall be shared abundantly among us and with those we hold dear.

Yours, always.

Your children ❤️

…

Почивај у миру, оче! 🕊️

Губитак вољене особе увек је једно дубоко емотивно искуство, али када је та особа отац с којим никада нисте имали однос, туга може бити посебно комплексна. Док тужим за одласком свог оца, кога сам последњи пут видео пре 13 година, сусрећем се са осећајем празнине и жељом за везом која никада заиста није постојала. Овај есеј служи као катартично истраживање мојих емоција, одражавајући на отсуство очитог братског веза и утицај који је имало на мој живот и живот мог брата и сестре.

Одрастанје без очитог облика оца оставило је неизбрисив траг на мом животу. Иако неки могу тврдити да је боље немати оца него токсичног, отсуство очитог присуства оставило ме жељним за водством, подршком и осећајем припадности. Као дете, често сам се питао зашто мој отац није био ту за мене, упитавајући своју сопствену вредност његове љубави и пажње. Ова празнина обликовала је моје разумевање односа, самопоштовања и значаја емотивних веза.

Последњи пут сам свог оца видео пре 13 година, и то сећање остаје живо у мом уму. Надао сам се тренутку помирења, шанси да пребродимо размак који се створио између нас. Међутим, његова равнодушност и недостатак среће при мом виђењу су уништили сваку преосталу наду. Бол тог сусрета траје, остављајући ме са дубоким осећајем одбацивања и осталим питањем; шта би могло бити..

На жалост, одлазак мог оца не оставља ме само у туги са празнином, већ истиче поломљене односе између мене и мог брата и сестре. Уједињени смо у заједничком искуству одрастанја без очитог присуства, али нисмо успели да изградимо значајне везе једни са другима. Одсуство очевог облика оставило нас је изолованим, борећи се да се справимо са изазовима живота без подршке и водства које би отац требао да пружи. Када се скупљамо да се опростимо од оца, суочавамо се са суровом реалношћу наше одвојености, тужећи не само за његовим губитком, већ и за изгубљеним приликама за везу међусобно.

Док се дан сахране ближи, и када се скупљамо да се опростимо од нашег оца, сусрећем се са мешавином емоција. Бол о неиспуњеном односу тежак је на мом срцу, али усред туге, такође налазим простор за опрост и прихватање.

Драги оче, иако су се наши путеви ретко сукобовали и раздаљина између нас изгледа непревазидљивом, желим да знаш да твој одлазак оставља неизбрисив траг у нашим животима. Иако можда нисмо делили драгоцене тренутке које би отац и деца требали имати, твоје присуство - или отсуство - обликовало нас је на дубоке начине.

Док стојимо овде, твоја два сина и твоја ћерка, признајемо комплексности наших емоција. Носимо са собом неисказане речи и недељене успомене, али такође носимо наду за излечење и помирење.

Нека почиваш у миру, оче. Нека терети који су тешко оптоваривали твоје срце нађу ослободење у прегрљају вечности. Нека нађеш утешење у знању да смо ми, твоја деца, кренули на пут попуштања и раста, тражећи да оправимо поломљене везе и негујемо семенце љубави које си можда посејао, иако ненамерно.

Овим последњим опроштајем, пуштамо бол одсутног односа и уместо тога, бирамо да се сетимо научених лекција из твог живота. Признајемо да си био човек, са својим борбама и несавршеностима. Твоје наслеђе служи као подсетник на значај неговања веза које заиста значе, на цењење тренутака са вољенима, и на изградњу мостова тамо где су некада били зидови.

Док те полажемо на починак, такође полажемо на починак неразврстане свађе и жаљења која нас је везало предуго. Наша заједничка туга нас сада уједињује, и у тој заједничкој боли налазимо снагу да се подржимо међусобно, излечимо ране прошлости, и прихватимо обећање будућности која ће се градити на разумевању и саосећању.

Оче, иако те нисам заиста познавао, твоје присуство у мом животу - и твој одлазак - научили су ме вредним лекцијама о људском искуству. Поштујемо твоју успомену не са гњевом или отпорношћу, већ са решешћу да будемо бољи појединци, боља браћа и сестре, и бољи родитељи.

Надамо се да ћеш наћи мир у свету изван нашег, и нека твој дух буде ослобођен терета који те је некада притискао. Буди уверен да ће твоја успомена живети у нашим срцима, и кроз промену коју је твој одлазак изазвао, понети ћемо наслеђе љубави, опроштања и саосећања.

Збогом, драги оче, и почивај у миру. Док се опраштамо, пригрљивамо наду да ће твој одлазак отворити пут за ново поглавље у нашим животима, где ће љубав коју смо жудели бити обилно делjена међу нама и с онима које волимо.

Твоји заувек,

Срђан, Милана и Лаза ❤️🙏🏼

We’re Watching a Genocide in 4K — And Too Many Are Still Silent

 

There’s a war going on. Not just with bombs and tanks — but a war of narratives, of silence, of carefully curated complicity. And most of us are watching it unfold in high definition, in real time. We scroll past the images of starving children, bombed-out hospitals, lifeless bodies in the rubble — and somehow, we just… keep scrolling.

What’s happening in Gaza and the West Bank is not just “a conflict.” It’s not “complicated.” It is the systematic, brutal, and deliberate destruction of a people. A genocide. And the world is letting it happen.

“It all started on October 7th” — Did it, really?

To those who only began paying attention on October 7th, 2023, I urge you to open a history book. The violence didn’t start there. This story is not a headline — it’s a legacy. It stretches back to 1948, when the state of Israel was founded on Palestinian land, displacing over 700,000 people in what Palestinians call al-Nakba, “the catastrophe.”

Since then, we’ve witnessed decades of occupation, apartheid, unlawful settlements, assassinations, mass imprisonment without trial, and the daily dehumanization of an entire population. Gaza has been turned into an open-air prison — and now into a mass grave.

Being against Israel ≠ Being against Jews

Let me make one thing absolutely clear: Criticizing Israel’s actions does not make you antisemitic.

This tired accusation is weaponized to silence dissent — but I reject that false equivalence. There are countless Jewish people worldwide who are appalled at what Israel is doing. They march in protests. They speak out. Because being Jewish is not synonymous with supporting Zionist aggression.

Condemning the starvation of children, the bombing of civilians, and the displacement of families is not an attack on a religion — it’s a defense of human rights. Period.

“But you’d be killed in Palestine for being gay…”

Yes, I’ve heard that too. And while it may be true that LGBTQ+ rights are severely lacking under some governments in the Middle East, that’s not the point. I don’t base my humanity on whether someone agrees with my identity.

I’m not pro every ideology. I’m pro humanity.

You can acknowledge that LGBTQ+ people are at risk in certain cultures without advocating for those people’s entire cities to be flattened by bombs. You can oppose repression without endorsing annihilation.

To put it bluntly: Just because a country’s laws wouldn’t protect me doesn’t mean its people deserve to be wiped off the map.

Who will speak when everyone’s bought?

Let’s be honest. One of the reasons the world stays silent while Gaza burns is because Israel has influence woven deep into the political systems of so many countries. Whether through bribery, lobbying, intimidation, or information control, retaliation against the state of Israel has become unthinkable for most world leaders — even in the face of clear, repeated violations of international law.

And the result? Deafening silence.

Thousands dead. Millions displaced. And barely a word from the institutions that claim to stand for human rights.

If you’ve ever wondered what you would’ve done during the Holocaust — the answer is simple: You’re doing it now.

Are you speaking up? Are you challenging injustice? Are you doing anything at all?

Or are you scrolling past, again?

Choose humanity

I don’t care about what flag you wave, what god you pray to, or who your ancestors were. What I care about is whether you believe in the dignity of human life. Whether you can look at what’s happening — in Gaza, the West Bank, Lebanon, Iran — and say: “This is wrong. This must stop.”

Because neutrality is no longer an option. Silence is no longer harmless.

I stand with justice. I stand with truth.

And above all — I stand with Palestine.

The Stone Book

They say that long before ink was invented, before men carved their stories into cave walls or pressed reed to papyrus, the Earth herself wrote a book.

Not with words, but with time.

She bound it not in leather, but in pressure and silence. Layer upon layer, century after century, pressed together by tides older than memory. It was not written in a language the tongue could speak, but one the soul might remember—if it listened hard enough.

The elders of the coast call it The Stone Book. Hidden between the jaws of ancient cliffs, revealed only when the tide draws back as if turning a page. It looks like a tome forgotten by gods, left behind in a moment of absentminded divinity.

They say the one who reads the Stone Book—truly reads it—can hear the voices of extinct forests, can smell the breath of volcanoes long cooled, can feel the heartbeat of the Earth before it ever knew our name. But it does not give up its story easily. It waits. Patient as time. Silent as the grave.

And once in a great while, a wanderer finds it. Not by map or compass, but by ache—some gnawing need to go where reason says there’s nothing. These are the chosen ones, the accidental prophets.

They find The Stone Book in a cleft of rock, where sea meets sand, sun meets shadow. And when they reach out to touch it, they feel warmth—an impossible, ancient warmth—like the last breath of something holy.

But the book cannot be taken. It does not belong on a shelf. Its story must remain unread, remembered not in pages, but in awe. A relic of a time when the Earth still believed in magic, and was kind enough to leave behind proof.